flicker
by gryffindormischief
Summary: This love left a permanent mark / This love is glowing in the dark / These hands had to let it go free / And this love came back to me


A/N: this is a **MATURE** one so read only if you're ok with some heavy sultry. Thank inakindofdaydream and petals-to-fish on tumblr for this one because they were the best enablers a fic writer could ask for. Hope you enjoy!

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It's been three years, almost four; days slipping through her grasping fingers. When she sees him, the weight of passed time mixes with the feeling that almost nothing has changed. Not for her at least.

His smile is still the thing she wants to see most in the world, the bright flash that could light up the darkest room, his laugh a warm melody that fills her chest to brimming.

She should have anticipated, prepared, for the shock. But even with the short note from Sirius days before that James was alive - it still feels like a beautiful dream she dreads waking from.

Their last days together were filled with anger - at each other but in reality they both knew it was bitter resentment that the world spun on while they were torn apart. Moody knew what it would do to them, that James couldn't infiltrate with her by his side any more than he could turn his back on the biggest break they'd gotten since Vodemort's rise.

Sirius begged to take his place, but his vocal opposition to the likes of Bellatrix and the rest of her cohorts would've been harder to bounce back from than James' apparent choice to turn his back on generations of Potters fighting for equality.

She was harsh, too harsh, in those precious remaining hours and James gave as good as he got and every day since her regret hung in the back of her mind like cobwebs that wouldn't brush away. In the dark of her dingy flat in London, their angry words had turned to heated kisses, bruising touches, and silent tears muffled against damp skin.

The first few weeks without him, she found herself absently staring at her palms, wondering why she'd let their last time be a harsh, rushed thing instead of mapping every inch of him to tuck away in that secret place behind her ribcage.

Instead, she was tormented with flashes of his angry eyes, remembrances of her angry, hateful words that tore at her like lingering scar tissue. She healed outwardly, pushed forward in her own work, rescued countless muggles and muggleborns with the rest of the underground, and fooled everyone, even herself.

Until Remus turned up on her doorstep one foggy morning, too late for Christmas and too early to ring in the new year. When the words left his lips, she crumpled like a ragdoll. Days passed and she grew to hate looking in the mirror, seeing the green eyes he'd loved - the same green he'd glimpsed before the thread of his life was cut short.

After, she worked like a woman possessed. Her previous work on the defensive front fell by the wayside and her mind was consumed with a singular and utterly unfamiliar goal. Revenge.

Dark circles rimmed her eyes so long she thought they'd become permanent, her nights filled with hours spent training with Sirius until he refused, growling that James wouldn't have wanted this for her. She'd slashed her wand and sent him stumbling, thudding onto the creaky wood slats of the attic floor, heart clenching. When she broke, her sobs wracked her body almost to convulsions and Sirius' slim arms circled her, rocked her until her breathing steadied.

He was the closest to understanding what she'd lost, to feeling what she did. And yet when the time came it was her wand that ended Peter and the relief she'd sought was nowhere to be found.

Until the note, barely even that, on a stray scrap of paper and signed with a simple sketch brought her back to life, that small flame she'd thought permanently doused flickering somewhere inside.

And now, now he's here and real and alive and she almost can't bear it. He hasn't seen her yet and maybe it's best if he doesn't. Maybe this is her goodbye, her closure after everything.

But before she can move to make the choice for him, Sirius grabs James' shoulder and twists him until both their gazes find Lily across the dark, crowded pub.

Aberforth eyes her and wordlessly slides another pint into her palm before disappearing again and James is at her side.

New lines spread from his eyes, a slim scar cuts across his right cheek far enough to split the dark whiskers that cover his jaw. Their embrace is long and being held in his arms is a heady sort of drug that she can't let go of and she'd be embarrassed without the answer of his thudding heart.

Their conversation is thin; that odd sort where you have too much history and too much time between you to settle on anything but short meaningless phrases and hesitant smiles.

It might strike her as odd later that they were given such a wide berth, save the occasional refreshment of drinks, but stilted as things are she's too caught up in his hazel eyes to notice much else.

She wants to ask a million questions, beg forgiveness, yell until he does the same.

Instead she finds herself unlocking her door with his warm chest at her back, his broad hands familiar against her hips as the keys jangle and fall from her grip.

Her hands slip over his chest, shoulders, and into his wild curls while his mouth slants against hers and their breaths mix.

Maybe he means this as goodbye - each reverent touch of his fingers as he slips pearlescent buttons free and pushes her cardigan from her shoulders a final farewell, the way things should have been all those endless years ago.

She doesn't try to convince herself that it's any sort of goodbye for her - James has never been something she could give up, even when wrenched from her grip.

His jumper is a coarse, woolen thing she lifts over his head as soon as either is willing to part their lips and uneven breaths fill the silent flat.

Mistakes are repeated more often than most would like to admit, and Lily's not an outlier, but certain regrets are too weighty to allow for a second go. Now, she knows it could be her last chance and it won't be a rushed thing.

Their clothes litter the path to her bedroom, discarded articles outnumbering the scant furniture spread through her drafty flat.

Yellow light from the streetlamps colored the street, but six floors up the room is bathed in pale blue from the moon's glow and Lily half believes he really is a specter sent to torture her like the ghosts she'd wrestled in tormented dreams.

Even as they let the last scraps of clothing slip away she doesn't find herself sure he's real. Not until they awkwardly find their way to her mattress, unkempt and flat against the bare wood floor. He cradles her to his chest through it all, close enough that she maps more marks gathered up on his skin since she'd last tasted his lips.

Her breath hitches as he settles into place over her, her hands grasping at his broad shoulders as they relearn what neither really forgot.

James' arms pull her close and she slips her leg over his back, dragging him in until his sighs turn to a groan against her hair and she bites at his shoulder.

Fingers grasp desperately, pressing pale marks into bare skin as she arches closer and his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose.

Lily's breath comes out in pants as she reaches to slip his spectacles free but he shakes his head even as his jaw tightens in concentration. His eyes find hers, boring in as if he can see past skin and sinew into the heart of her.

The night stretches into every dream that had lingered in her wildest dreams like phantoms in long, lonely years.

Hours are measured in presses of lips, soft touches, and whispered sighs until daylight breaks through the streaked window panes. She's finally curled against him, arm banded around his middle as her fingers drift from one scar to the next and James' eyes drift closed.

His dark lashes curl against his cheekbones and she can't bare to do the same, like losing sight of him will mean none of this is real.

Unbidden, tears fill her eyes and drop to his skin, rousing him from whatever rest he'd found in her arms, in her bed.

His palm cups her chin, thumb brushing rivulets from her cheek and pulling her face toward his.

And after it all, it's that soft press of his lips, the warm sureness of his hands, the familiar twist of his grin that grounds her, anchors her after the storm. When she makes to stand he tightens his grip, barely audible as he whispers their first word in hours, "_Stay_."


End file.
